Pet Cobra

On Trolls, Trolling, The Whole Troll Thing

Something’s been bothering me, O Internets, and I choose now to vent my spleen. What prompted the venting was a post by one of my favorite bloggers - there is a happy ending, and I will get to it shortly.

But first: there has been talk about general crankiness in the Blogosphere (or at least the the Blogosphere street on which I dwell, Upper Middle Class White People With Kids Lane). People are pretty solemn; posts about the trollery have been delivered with same gravitas used by Alec Guinness when describing the destruction of Alderaan in Episode IV – “as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced”. It’s Serious Stuff, folks. I tried to avoid it, but I found myself reading a whole bunch of comments on a whole bunch of blogs and it pretty much sucked the life out of me.

The thing with assholish (Webster’s definition: “of or like an asshole, see also ‘assholey’”) comments is not that they’re offensive, or disturbing, or cruel, or chickenshit. As a reader and a writer, what bothers me about assholey (“see also ‘assholish’”) comments is that they’re boring. I have and will continue to boot trolls off of my sites, not because I’m pissed off at what they say, but because there’s nothing quite as soporific as reading some of the virtual shadowboxing matches that pass for the Comments sections of many blogs. And I’ll say this. Almost as boring? Bloggers that decide to wade into the fray by doing a post about a bitch-slap session that’s happening on another blog. There’s better ways to draw traffic to your sites, folks; start by being original, and since I’m teetering on the brink of Bandwagon Gorge, I’ll step back from the edge.

Yeah, there’s a lot of that about, and I got all mopey thinking about it. Why bother reading – hell, why bother writing - this shit? (Yeah, the existential problems we face here on Upper Middle Class White People With Kids Lane – it’s a tough ol’ world.) Leave it to Mimi Smartypants to provide the answer.

"I don't want catastrophe to befall me, I would never manufacture drama just for the sake of a silly little web diary, and my favorite online writing is that of regular joes and janes who break open their mundane moments like piñatas and let all the cool shit spill out into our laps. Using the Internet as their baseball bat, I suppose, if I take my tossed-off analogy to its limit."

Words to live by, Internets.

The "Surf" Report for Saturday, March 25: Ice Ice Baby

Now that the feeling has returned to my fingers, I can provide a recap of this morning's action, or lack thereof (surely the title provided some indication).

Buddy Chris and I hit Ponto bright and early, 6:30 this morning. Conditions were Blondie (the tide is high - get it?) and c-c-c-c-c-c-cold; water temp was 57. Ever been hit in the head with a mallet? That's what duckdiving felt like. Within ten minutes my hands were completely numb. The surf was mixed up and lifeless; the waves would appear and just as quickly back off. I briefly regretted not bringing the longboard, but reminded myself that I'm on a mission: get the new board dialed in, and ride nothing else until I do. We flailed around for about an hour and half. Chris did well; he was on his new 6' 2" Surf Prescriptions Tuflite, caught a couple and made the bottom turn before stalling out. Me, well, we know how this movie ends, although I had one fleeting moment. Stroked into what started off as a waist high, and just as I felt the board move under the wave's power and was popping up, the wave deflated and I sank like a rock. Still, in that moment a nagging question was answered: there's no doubt that I can ride this new board. Just a matter of time, and conditions. I'll hit it again tomorrow. Provided I don't have to have anything amputated.

I Lost On Jeopardy

It was nagging at me; there was some kind of anniversary this past week, and it coincided with St. Paddy's, and what the hell was it? An assignment that I'm working on for the other gig (I'll pimp myself, yes I will: I'm "interviewing" A.J. Jacobs) shook off the cobwebs. Last week marked the 5 year anniversary of my 30 minutes of fame: March 17, 2000. The day I lost on Jeopardy! (sic - you have to include the !, as you do when referencing certain Broadway musicals.)

The real story has not been told. Until now. 

I was a pretty good Trivial Pursuit player. And I was a Jeopardy! watcher (not a fan; the fans know the Jeopardy! contestants like Dukies might know their Blue Devil hoops players - I could tell you that the blind guy was a Five-Day winner, but that was about it). 7:00 would roll around and I'd be on the couch watching. And answering. Correctly, more often than not. Always in the form of a question. "What is the Siegfried Line? Who is Carl Perkins? What is Djibouti? Who were the Knights Templar? What is Deuteronomy?" And so forth. It occured to Beth that maybe I ought to try out for the show. And so I did. Called the Contestant Hotline, left my info, and waited.

A few weeks later, I got a call back. Was I still interested in trying out? Directions were given. Some things were to be mailed for me to read and sign. I was to report to the Jeopardy! studio in Culver City, where I was to take a Test, and if I passed The Test, I was to participate in a mock version of the game with two other contestants, presumably to see if I had star quality.

The audition was a nervewracking affair. There were some 75 people there. We were seated in a large room, and the tests were handed out. 50 questions, 50 different categories. I finished ahead of some people, behind others. I passed. 65 didn't. They were escorted out. The "screen test" was pretty quick, lasting about 5 minutes. When it was done, we were told that we were now eligible to appear as a contestant, but there was no guarantee that we'd actually appear, due to the shooting schedule. So it was back to San Diego. Nothing to do but wait, and train. Yeah, I got a copy of the Jeopardy! PC game, and put in a couple of hours a night. My strengths: movies, literature, music, history. Weaknesses: art, math, some science (by "some", I mean anything other than astronomy and zoology).

Shortly thereafter, I got the call. I was going to be on the show.

Taping day. Beth and my buddy Tim in the studio audience. I'm in the "green room". On a given day, five shows - one week's worth - are taped. I'm tagged to be a contestant on show # 5. Meaning there's nothing to do but wait. And watch. And what I'm watching is troubling. I'm watching a woman named Robin steamroll her way through shows 1, 2, 3, and 4. She's a ringer - the announcer says that her job is "professional fact checker", and she cooly dispatches her opponents with the steely precision of a Delta Force sniper. "What is Cameroon? Who was Lord Cardigan? What is an archipelago? What is the topgallant sail? Let's make it a true Daily Double, Alex." The green roomers fear and hate her. They march off, two by two, to meet their fates.

Then it's my turn. I'm trying not to sweat. Everything happens quickly - the questions, er, answers come flying, fast and furious. I get a few right ("What is Freebie and The Bean? What is the University of Nebraska?") and a few wrong ("Who are the Molly Maguires? What is a lab rat?"). Robin has it dialed in; what you the viewer can't see is the row of lights that run down the side of the bank of monitors that display the categories and the answers. When Alex asks the question, there's a brief pause, and the lights flash, indicating that you can buzz in and answer the question. Buzz in too soon, and your buzzer is "locked out" for two seconds, meaning that you're shit out of luck. Robin's done this four times; she has the timing down, and it's her game to lose. She's a "lock" going into Final Jeopardy; she's won enough that the other contestant and I can't bet enough to beat her. She's going to be a Five Day Winner. Second and Third are still up for grabs.

Now, back in Tha Day, Jeopardy! offered Second and Third Place prizes. The show is slated to air on St. Patrick's Day, 2000; the second place prize is a trip to Dublin, to stay at what Johnny Gilbert refers to as "a Merv Griffin Resort". The Third Place prize: a complete home entertainment system. 32 inch TV, stereo receiver w/24 disc CD changer, and speakers "valued at over $1500!" Mental bifurcation. Two things flash through my mind: a bunch of elderly Irishmen trying to manuever their walkers around a shuffleboard court, and me sitting on the couch, beer in hand, basking in the cathode glory of that 32 inch screen, watching a muted football game with a soundtrack of 24 CD's worth of Random Play in the background. Decision made. The Final Jeopardy question: "In 1999, a group of Shakespearean actors banded together to help save this murderer's childhood home from demolition." My answer - well, I get it right, but it stays in my head. I don't answer.

So there's my story; as I write, I'm on the couch, watching My Name Is Earl on that same TV. Soy un perdidor, perhaps, but Robin Carroll went on to make Jeopardy! history - one might say that she was the Ken Jennings of her day, and I'm cool with that. Although I do feel a slight pang of regret when I hear the question "Who is John Wilkes Booth?"

When All Else Fails, Get The Led Out

I've been somewhat lax in posting to The Cobra. I was picking my brain, trying to come up with topics. The following were considered:

The kid's birthday party. This was on Saturday. The highlight of the day: Beth made cupcakes and a variety of different colored frostings, with the idea that the kiddies, all two-ish, would decorate their own cupcake. We were shocked - shocked! - when, upon placing the bowls of frosting in front of the children, and giving them spoons, the kids immediately started shovelling spoonfuls of bright red, turquoise, and yellow frosting into their mouths. Equally shocking - the fact that a kid can, in fact, make a turquoise-colored turd. Seriously. You could've refrosted a cupcake with the turquoise poop and no one would've been the wiser. I'd have taken pictures and posted them, but, you know. That's nasty.

The failure to surf. I even had a clever title: Step Into Cold Murky Brown Smelly Liquid. Once again, the trifecta of wind, rain, and runoff meant no surfing for me. If my blog were purely a surf blog, it would be kind of like Jarhead.

So rather than talk about all that, I will tell you that my choice for the best Zeppelin song is their cover of Robert Johnson's "Travelling Riverside Blues". It's got it all: deft bass playing by JPJ, a killer slide guitar (is Page playing a 12-string? Sounds like it.), Bonham's plodding drums, and Plant yowling some truly memorable lyrics: "She ain't but 16, she's my rider..." Good stuff. Yeah, I can't believe you don't have to pay to read this blog either.

Fight On and On, Ye Aztec Men

Yes, March Madness Fever Madness is sweeping the nation, even here at Rancho Avant. The Sons Of Montezuma, led by legendary coach Steve Fisher (or is it Fischer?) are in The Big Dance. To be sure, they are not the Prom King - one might say they came stag, and their dad drove them - but as of this writing they are beating the Indiana Hosers 44-41 at the half. So one might say that they are least on the dance floor, and are dancing with the Prom King's sister's cousin, and grabbing her ass.

Riding The Storm Out

What better way to end a week of such highs (my e-chat with Neal Pollack, general awesomeness with the new job) and lows (Beth's grandma passed away yesterday; wrote about it over at DadCentric, and many, many thanks to all of you who commented and emailed) then with a thunderstorm.

Sometimes, life's menu consists solely of a Shit Sandwich and a Tab; occasionally the Tab is warm and flat, and if you're really lucky, the waiter spits on on your Shit Sandwich before he brings it to you. The storm rolled through last night, first bringing rain (Lucas: "Main, main, doe a may. Main, main, doe a may. Main, main, doe a may..." We're gonna work on the second verse today) and then a rattling fusillade of hail. The thunder and lightning came much later, after the kid, the dog and I were asleep. 3:00 a.m., and I'm woken by the dog jumping up on the bed, panting in terror - or so I thought (Note to you literary types - "or so I thought"? Foreshadowing!). Hot on his heels is Lucas - apparently, Mick decided to pay him a visit first, as Lucas came running into the room yelling "No no no Mick! Night night!" Just then, as if we're in a bad Stephen King novel (ahem), a lightning strike lights up the room. Seconds later, the rumble of thunder. The dog whines. The kid claps his hands and yells "Mo! Mo!" The dad thinks he'd better chill these two out or he's gonna be up for a while. Mick jumps off the bed and darts out of the room, presumably (!) to curl up in a ball on the bathroom floor, his favorite retreat. Lucas sits on the bed with me; fatigue quickly catches up with him, and I scoop him up and return him to his bed.  It's 3:20 - I return to mine and doze off...

...and five minutes later, I wake up and it's 7:00. Feeling the effects of the four glasses of red wine and handful of Samoas I had for dessert last night, I stumble into the front room to survey the damage from the storm. Looking out the window, nothing serious - the hail wasn't big enough to damage the cars, there's a few palm fronds and bird-of-paradise stalks in the front yard and the street, the one rail on the little wood fence that runs along the street has fallen off again, easily fixed, just slide it back in, oh, and the dog has shit all over the living room carpet. And he took a nice piss, for good measure.

I hear Lucas waking up. The weather gal on the TV says more rain is on the way. Gonna be a long day.

The Age of HGTV

Beth and I are sitting on the couch. Our respective laptops are humming away; she is doing our taxes, I am...well, you know what I'm all about right now. On the TV, a show called House Hunters is showing us the true-life adventures of a couple and their real estate agent as they look for a new house. Yes, apparently people find this compelling. A snippet of dialogue from the show:

Agent: "Custom molding, ceiling fan, drapes..."

Wife:"Drapes are included?"

Agent (pauses to look down at his clipboard): "Yes. Yes they are."

Husband and wife exchange a knowing glance. Free drapes. Fuck yeah, buddy.

Paul Simon was right. These are the days of miracle and wonder.

This Many

I've been thinking about the phrase "The Old Man", as it's applied to dads.  730 days ago today the kid was born, and although in the great grand scheme of things that's not a whole heck of a long time ago, I'm reminded of the words of a learned professor of archaelogy. "It's not the years, it's the mileage." I'd be lying if I said that having a kid didn't cause a little premature aging; the proof is in the gray strands that weren't there in April '04.

For the past two years, I've been living in the moment, as Lucas does. And to him, every moment is precious. The things we take for granted - walking through the grass in our bare feet, watching a ball bounce across the floor, seeing a dump truck rumble by, savoring that first sip of apple juice in the morning - are to him a cause for celebration. People talk about the Terrible Two's, but what's left out is this: that regardless of how long the tantrums last, or how much crying occurs when the answer is "No", the anger and sadness never linger; indeed, often the blues are gone as quickly as they appear. The kid's modus operandi is Happy, and deviations are brief. Why be sad when the world is filled with tail-waggin' doggies and airplanes fly across the big blue sky?

Every morning, I drive him to daycare. The train tracks run parallel to one of the roads we take, and Lucas gazes intently out the window the whole time, eyes peeled for the morning Amtrak Coaster or, even better, the bigger and faster Surfliner.  And when he spots one, the clapping and "CHOO CHOO!" begins, and when it passes us by he waves and calls out "Bye bye Choo Choo! Byeee!" Here's the thing, the reason why I'm not sure so that I'm "The Old Man": on those days when I'm driving alone, and the train rolls by, I'll say "CHOO CHOO!" to myself. Because trains really are pretty cool.

So yeah, maybe I've matured a bit over the past two years - being a dad can do that to you. But today, Lucas' 2nd birthday, I'm feeling younger than I have in a long time. So Lucas, if by chance you read this someday, thanks for letting me into your world. I love you this much (spreads arms wide enough to encircle the world solar system galaxy Universe).